


run away with my heart (my hope; my love)

by mallory



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 18:58:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6820204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mallory/pseuds/mallory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Second chances are hard to come by and sometimes they come by hard.</p><p>Reposted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	run away with my heart (my hope; my love)

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title taken from ‘Wherever You Will Go’ by the Calling, but in keeping with the tone of this, I recommend listening to Charlene Soraia's cover.
> 
> **Not beta’d.**  
> 
> Edited 29/04/18

Their Audi skids dangerously around a sharp turn Jake makes and Amy braces herself to keep from ploughing into the car door. 

“Jake, for the last time put on your seatbelt!” she exclaims, her words choked out through the alarm that tightens her vocal cords. 

“I hate it! It’s so _annoying_. It feels like I’m suffocating.” 

“You’re going to feel a lot more than suffocated if you don’t wear it.” _When is he going to get it through his thick, idiot skull? One day, he’s going to get hurt because he wasn’t wearing a seat belt and he’ll only have himself to blame._

“Oh, you mean like being nagged to death?” He shoots her a pointed look as his fingers tighten around the steering wheel. “Because news flash, babe, you’re doing a mighty fine job of that!” 

“Keep your eyes on the road.” 

“Don’t passenger seat-drive me!” 

Her cheeks heat up as she turns in her seat to glare at him, the air thick and stifling in the darkness of the car. _God, it’s so hot in here._

Clenching her jaw, she jams her finger on the button to turn off the heater. She twists back around to face forward and jerks her arms across her chest. 

From the opposite end of the narrow street, a truck turns onto the road. She glares at it, willing the vehicle to combust as if it will release some of the pressure that she feels simultaneously pushing down on and out of her. 

She eyes the button on her passenger side door and considers cracking open the window, but doesn’t want to invite another argument about ‘wasting hot air’ or something equally idiotic and Jake. 

And that’s when it happens.

A bright light fills the cabin of the car. 

Amy jerks her head up and gasps, but it’s drowned out by an obnoxious horn blasting from the truck that’s barrelling straight toward them. The sight of it pushes her back into the seat like a physical weight.

The car swerves and her right shoulder explodes as it crashes into the door.

She looks over for Jake, her hand guiding her like a lighthouse on a stormy night. He snatches it up. Squeezes. 

His eyes are bulged. He mouthes something, but she can’t make it out over her piercing screams. 

“ _Amy_!” 

* * *

** 45 MINUTES EARLIER **

* * *

Jake’s laugh, boisterous and full of life, infects the toddler in his lap and pulls Amy from the fragrant glass of wine she’s swirling. 

Jake and Lacey are sitting in the middle of the Jefford’s living room plush rug. Legos in their hands and eyes pinched tight, their legs are splayed apart. In front of them sits the castle meant for Cagney’s stuffed giraffe, still on the structural foundation stage. 

Jake shoves a hand down Lacey’s sheep-printed pyjama pants and pulls out a green Lego, and Amy’s eyes widen. “Jake!” 

“She put it there,” he exclaims on the end of a titter, eliciting more giggles from Lacey. “She loves her Uncle Jake so much, she’s trying to emulate me.” 

Shaking her head, Amy smiles to herself and puts down her glass to join them on the floor. She seats herself beside Cagney, who’s sitting across from the giggling monkeys and playing quietly with her giraffe. 

Their rowdy playing doesn’t seem to attract Terry or Sharon’s attention, who are both in the kitchen of their quaint suburban home. 

Lacey heaves herself up with fists on Jake’s thigh and tries to barrel through all the legos to get to Amy. Jake grasps for the toddler as Amy almost falls face-first onto the legos as they both scramble to get hold of her before she hurts herself. 

The three year old has yet to develop a sense of safe and logical direction; she just knows where she wants to be and heads straight for it, climbing over whatever is in her way.

Jake throws her in the air and transfers a lively Lacey into the safety of Amy’s arms. Lacey grins toothily up at her and holds out a green Lego. You know, the one that was just in her pants. 

“Is this for me?” Amy tries not to blanch, accepting the piece of plastic. “Thank you... very much.” 

“Yeah!” Lacey blurts out, then almost falls over Amy’s leg trying to get to her sister. Laughing, Amy helps her along. 

Something shiny on the back of Lacey’s pyjama top catches her eye, and before the little munchkin gets too far, she reaches out to peel off the butterfly sticker. 

“Put it back!” Jake hisses, eyes wide and accusing. 

Frowning, Amy examines the little sticker on her finger. Her eyes widen and her head jerks back like it transformed into the real thing. “Jake,” she hisses back, mindful that Terry and Sharon are close by. “You can’t _tag_ the twins like they’re livestock!” 

He splays his hands out, fingers spread wide. “How else am I supposed to tell who’s who?” 

_The love of her life, ladies and gentlemen._

Closing her eyes, she shakes her head. “You are unbelievable.” 

“How can _you_ tell?”

Amy lifts a shoulder noncommittally as she tries to discern how she can pick out which twin is  which. “I just do.” 

“That’s tons of help, thanks!” he fires back sarcastically. 

“I don’t know.” She crawls over to him and rests her temple against his shoulder, watching the girls speak to each other in broken sentences and sounds. “Cagney’s more reserved; she likes to keep to herself and she has this calming way about her. Lacey’s a ball of energy.” She smiles as Lacey crashes a blue car into the purple one Cagney’s holding. “She’s always getting her hands into things she shouldn’t be and loves to laugh. 

“I want one,” she whispers, almost definitely hoping he doesn’t hear her, but his rigid shoulder under her head tells her there is no mistake he’d heard perfectly. 

“What? You want—what?” 

Pulling away, she grimaces at the look of shock and anxiousness on his face. “Don’t freak out.” 

“Freak out? Who’s freaking out? Not me.” Despite his attempts to look calm, his voice has gone considerably high and airy, like a balloon filled with helium. “I mean, you want kids— _now_?” 

“Well, not _now_ , now. In the distant... present. I want to start trying. It’s the perfect time.”

“No.”

Amy narrows her eyes. _No_? Did he just declare ‘no’ without even discussing it with her? 

Unfortunately, Terry chooses this moment to enter from the kitchen, so she bites her tongue. He’s wearing an apologetic smile as he crosses to the couch, arms laden with the unfinished bottle of wine from dinner, two new glasses and a plate of cookies. “Sorry about that. Sharon likes to keep her kitchen spotless.” 

Jake waves off Terry’s excuse, along with their conversation—for now. “Amy’s the same way.” 

Terry places the items on the glass coffee table and tells his girls to wish Jake and Amy goodnight before the three disappear upstairs for bedtime. As soon as they disappear from the room, Amy whacks the back of her hand against Jake’s arm. 

“Ow, what?” He rubs his arm. “It’s true; you are.” 

She digs her fingernails into the palm of her hands. “You can’t just make decisions about important things for the both of us. We’re married; we’re supposed to discuss things.” 

Jake sighs and rolls his head back, like talking about this is _such_ a burden. “Are we still on this? Look, I just don’t think it’s a good time right now.” 

“Okay, one: there’s never a _good time_ for a baby, and two: this is actually the best opportunity to have one.” 

He blinks up at the ceiling and purses his lips. “What about our jobs?”

“We both have stable incomes enough to support a child. My work at the magazine doesn’t soak  up my time outside the office, and you’ve given up travelling years ago. You’re your own boss; you pick and choose your own hours and jobs.” She swallows and tries for a softer tone. “Jake, is this about your dad?” 

He pulls himself up, his gaze dragging as he arches his back and neck to stretch out his muscles, arms pulled out exaggeratedly. 

Amy follows, clumsily clobbering to her feet. She catches one of his hands and holds it in both of hers. Tugging it to get his attention back, she pushes a kiss to the back of his palm. “You’re nothing like him. It’s okay to admit that you’re not ready or—” 

“You only want me to be because you want a baby so badly. And why is that?” He yanks his hand back and crosses his arms. “Am I not enough? That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t love me enough.” 

Amy recoils at the anger that spews from his lips, but fires back, “That’s not true and you know it.” Jake’s never been that good of a liar, and she doesn’t have to have known him long to pick up on his tell—and if he keeps blinks like that he’s going to give himself a headache. “Stop making excuses and tell me the truth.” 

“Um...” a new voice pipes up, and they whip around to find Sharon in the doorway, smiling hesitantly. “Is everything okay?” 

Pasting on a polite expression, Amy clears her throat. “I’m terribly sorry, Sharon. We didn’t mean to bring this into your home.” 

“Oh, it’s okay.” Sharon waves a hand, as if to sweep away the apology, but she won’t meet their eyes. 

“It’s getting late. We should...” Amy cuts a look to Jake. “We should go.” 

Sharon puts up a half-hearted attempt of a fight, but it barely takes them a few minutes for Amy and Jake to don their coats, a thin veil of courtesy over their farewells and final apologies, before they’re climbing into their car parked in the driveway. 

Amy slams the door harder than she intends and has to yank the seat belt a few times until it crosses her body. 

“It’s freaking freezing!” Jake exclaims, turning on the ignition and firing the heaters and seat warmers. 

“Put your seatbelt on,” Amy orders in a familiar routine. Jake maintains he doesn’t like the restriction and of course ignores all the facts she has to say regarding the statistics of seat belts saving lives. It’s one of the many things about him that aggravates her. 

Sometimes she wonders how they ever lasted this long with their glaring differences; how she could ever love someone as careless and frivolous as Jake. His way of living is vastly different to the way she prefers—he thrives on spontaneity, while she depends on stability and routine. He’s fine living day by day without a need for the future, but she needs a map to guide her way. 

Other times she fixates on how she became the type of person to put her whole life on the line for love. But then she remembers that love isn’t simply a feeling as fleeting and fluid as an emotion. No; love is a choice, and Amy chooses Jake because of their differences. Because there’s more than one way to live and she admires (and sometimes envies) Jake for  that. 

Their relationship is never easy, especially when their ideas clash—and there’s a lot of head-butting and compromising—but it’s always worth it for the refreshing outlook he introduces to her. It’s like life before and after her first pair of glasses: she went through life thinking that trees can only look like a blurry blob from afar and it wasn’t until she slipped on a pair of glasses that she saw for the first time that the leaves on the trees could look so embellished and beautiful. 

Jake sets her senses on fire and ignites a passion within her.

Which is why, Amy thinks, maybe she overreacted earlier.

“Are you still mad?” Jake utters warily over the heavy _whoosh_ of the heater.

“No.” She sighs, turning away from the nondescript dark, wet buildings outside her window. 

The streetlights that pass them by shed light on his jumpy leg under the steering wheel. At her resigned response, it settles and the car suddenly seems too still despite the occasional bumps on the road. 

He chances a glance at her. “You know I love you, right?” A hand reaches for her blindly and she grabs for it, lets his fingers curl effortlessly around hers—and just like that, Amy melts into her seat.  He squeezes her hand and lifts it to press little kisses to her fingers.

A quiet smile creeps across her face. “I know.” She rests her left temple against the headrest and blinks slowly at Jake, letting the warmth permeating the cabin of the car soothe the tension in her body.

“Do you remember when we first met?” he asks, seemingly out of the blue. 

“I was an intern at _Linetti_ , making my daily coffee run. You crashed into me and spilled coffee all over the both of us.” Closing her eyes, she can almost smell the powerful aroma of coffee beans. Rosa’s iced Americano had seared down her ruffled blouse like sharp and unforgiving fingernails, and Amy barely stops herself from the involuntary shudder at the sudden chill that runs down her spine. 

“I offered to replace your order and you started freaking out about being late,” he continues, an affectionate lilt in his voice. “Little did I know then that you were a mega slave driver to yourself and thought half an hour early to work was being late. So I told you I’d _personally_ escort you back to the building and apologise to your boss.” 

“I didn’t think you were serious.” It wasn’t enough that she had to trek through two blocks of a typical New York morning crowd, reeking of caffeine with the heavy sun beating down on her and the unforgiving wind tousling her hair onto the sticky top plastered to her chest. “You yakked about god-knows-what from Starbucks all the way to my office.”   A smile unfurls across her face. “But then you made that joke about bedazzling Jennifer Lawrence’s ass that even got Rosa smiling. That’s when I knew you had me. But you only saw me as a friend.” 

“I was the biggest idiot,” he says, no cheek or sarcasm. “I was so consumed with what I’d had with Jenny that I was blinded by what was in front of me.” 

“She really got her hooks in you, didn’t she?” Watching Jake fall over himself over that ungrateful woman was one of the hardest things Amy ever had to do. Still: “I don’t regret it, you know.” She opens her eyes and catches him watching her. “We became friends first—best friends, and I think that’s built such a strong foundation that we fall back and rely on now. In fact, if I had to go back,  I wouldn’t change a thing that’s happened.” 

“Really?” His nose scrunches. “If I had to go back, I’d cut off that gross afro I was trying to grow for two years. I thought I looked so cool. What the heck was I thinking?” 

“What were you thinking,” she murmurs, the corners of her mouth curving. 

The car skids dangerously around a sharp turn he makes and she braces herself to keep from ploughing into the car door. “Jake, for the last time put on your seatbelt,” she exclaims, her words squeezed out harshly through the alarm that tightens her vocal cords. 

“I hate it! It’s so  _annoying_. It feels like I’m suffocating.”

“You’re going to feel a lot more than suffocated if you don’t wear it.”  _When is he going to get it through his thick, idiot skull? One day, he’s going to get hurt because he wasn’t wearing a seat belt and he’ll only have himself to blame._

“Oh, you mean like being nagged to death?” He shoots her a pointed look as his fingers tighten around the steering wheel. “Because news flash, babe, you’re doing a mighty fine job of that!”

“Keep your eyes on the road.”

“Don’t passenger seat-drive me!”

Her cheeks heat up as she turns in her seat to glare at him, the air thick and stifling in the darkness of the car.  _God, it’s so hot in here._

Clenching her jaw, she jams her finger on the button to turn off the heater. She twists back around to face forward and jerks her arms across her chest.

From the opposite end of the narrow street, a truck turns onto the road. She glares at it, willing the vehicle to combust as if it will release some of the pressure that she feels simultaneously pushing down on and out of her.

She eyes the button on her passenger side door and considers cracking open the window, but doesn’t want to invite another argument about ‘wasting hot air’ or something equally idiotic and Jake.

And that’s when it happens.

A bright light fills the cabin of the car.

Amy jerks her head up and gasps, but it’s drowned out by an obnoxious horn blasting from the truck that’s barrelling straight toward them. The sight of it pushes her back into the seat like a physical weight.

The car swerves and her right shoulder explodes as it crashes into the door.

She looks over for Jake, her hand guiding her like a lighthouse on a stormy night. He snatches it up. Squeezes.

His eyes are bulged. He mouthes something, but she can’t make it out over her piercing screams.

“ _Amy_!”

The crunch of metal. A jolt. The seatbelt choking her as she lurches forward—like an arm yanking  her back into the body of the seat. Something pulls on her arm... Slips from her clammy grip. 

Her ears ring. 

A blast of the bitter cold slaps her cheeks. 

Her throat closes up as something assaults her senses. The smell of her old hand-me-down bike when it got wet... 

Blood.

Pinpricks of colour flash into her vision. 

She can’t breathe, yet it seems every rapid inhale forced into her lungs is like tiny needles rattling down her throat. 

Jake.

He-he’s not in the driver’s seat. Where—? 

That’s not her blood. Oh god... That’s—Those are his sneakers. Hanging over the dashboard. He’s... He’s gone through the window. 

She lunges forward to reach for him, but she’s hauled back. What...? 

The unmoving body in front of her grows unfocused. The world tips unevenly like a seesaw moving so fast it’s looks like there are two. 

An invisible force sits on her arm as she tries to lift it and reach out again. It doesn’t move.

A blackness lures her consciousness. It's hard to fight it when she’s holding onto something else. ... _Jake_.

 

_** ~&~ ** _

 

The first few hours after Amy wakes up in the hospital is muddy; finicky. 

If you ask her later what she remembers, she’ll tell you vaguely about the pain from her head, neck and chest. Asking her another time may reveal the ache from her right shoulder and slight stinging on various parts of her face and hands, or she’ll explain how deep shadows of emotions consumed her all at once: confusion, fear, panic. 

But every time, she’ll tell you how it dulls... all of it, in one single breath: “ _Jake_.”

 

_** ~&~ ** _

 

Her earliest full memory of awareness involves the nurses and her doctor. They’re quick and efficient in checking the machine and wires hooked up to her, maintaining her injuries and cross-examining her cognitive state, and answering her request for updates about her husband. 

“Welcome back. You’ve been in a car accident.”

“Your husband’s still in surgery.”

“Do you remember your name? What year is it?”

“They’re doing everything they can, but how are you feeling?”

“He’s lost a lot of blood.”

“Can you follow the light?”

“Right now, all you can do is heal and send good thoughts.”

Their soothing tones do nothing but fuel her nerves and make her jittery. She twists the wedding band around her finger, shifts in her bed and chews on her bottom lip, willing for them to leave so they can come back quicker with more information.

 

_** ~&~ ** _

 

Her friends and family trickle in and out in pairs, bringing in with them gifts that, although purchased with well intentions, are meaningless.

Their words are more comforting than the mass-produced three-foot tall stuffed bear Charles brought in.

Terry places a big hand on her shoulder. “He’ll pull through, Amy.”

“You’ll both be fine.” Ben grips her hand harder. “Mom and the boys are all praying for him.”

“Jakey’s gonna make it,” Charles utters, voice brittle and cheeks wet.

“He is,” Rosa says, her voice and face void of—just a void. “Or I’ll kick his ass myself.”

 

_** ~&~ ** _

 

The first time she sees him, she would have fallen to her knees if she isn’t already sitting down.

She shrinks back into the wheelchair the closer she’s pushed to the bed. There’s a breathing tube coming out of his mouth, and he’s hooked up to so many wires that tracing one back to its machine would make her eyes cross and her throbbing head deepen. There’s a white bandaged wrapped around his head, stained a frightening red from the top right side of his forehead.

She turns her face away as the back of her eyes prick. The wheelchair stops at the side of his bed. She jolts at the warm hand to the back of her neck and vaguely registers her brother’s comforting words.

“Mrs. Peralta...” Jake’s doctor begins softly. “I’m Doctor Hannigan.” Jake’s put into a drug-induced coma, Doctor Hannigan tells her, to allow his brain and body to heal from the trauma. “It’s a common procedure for a critical patient with intracranial haemorrhaging. We’ll slowly wean him off it as his brain’s swelling decreases...”

_Oh god._

Amy covers her mouth with one hand and shakily reaches for the scratched up hand in front of her.

“Mrs. Peralta?”

“You can talk to me,” Ben says.

Amy ignores the quiet chatter between the doctor and Ben. She doesn’t pay any thought to the muffled yells and beeps beyond the room, nor the throb of her right shoulder when she leans her elbow on the arm of the wheelchair.

She just holds his hand.

 

_** ~&~ ** _

 

_“It feels like I’m suffocating,” Jake exclaims._

_“You’re going to feel a lot more than suffocated if you don’t wear it.”_

_“Oh, you mean like being nagged to death?” He glares at her. “You’re doing a mighty fine job of that!”_

_“Keep your eyes on the road.”_

_“Don’t passenger seat-drive me!”_

_Heat bubbles up her chest and Amy lurches over and grabs for the wheel. Jake gasps, and they wrestle it. There’s a sickening feeling in her stomach, much like that time she went on a tilt-o-whirl. She falls back into the passenger seat—with the wheel in her hands._

_A blinding light burns her eyes, and she snaps her head over to Jake. Blood oozes down his hairline and he stares at her with wide, hateful eyes._

_“You did this,” he mutters._

Amy jolts awake. Pain erupts from her left hand, where there’s an IV attached.

She’s in her hospital room. The open blinds from the window allow eerie shadows of the city to spill onto the floor. The thick blanket is pushed down to her lap and stifling over her legs, so she kicks it to the foot of the bed. Her body is sticky and cold, her face hot and wet. Breaths are coming out fast and short.

_You did this_.

Amy tries to swallow down the tears clogging her throat. She rolls to her side and the pillow absorbs her guilt as her hand smothers out the sound of her despair.

 

_** ~&~ ** _

 

Amy’s released from the hospital the morning after. But every day, for as long as the nurses let her, she sits with Jake in the ICU. Holding his hand. Whispering to him her sorrow. That she loves him. That she’ll be here when he opens his eyes. 

Every day, she watches the bruises and cuts on his face heal, squeezing his hand and hoping to feeling him squeeze her back. 

She’s only forced to leave the hospital when the city’s deep in the navy blanket of the night and a sympathetic nurse reminds her of the time. 

The first night she comes home to an empty apartment, it’s... too quiet. Stale. So she cleans it from top to bottom. Scrubs the grout between the bathroom tiles, vacuums the spaces between furniture and the wall, clears the cupboard of old, half-finished cereal boxes Jake doesn’t eat anymore. 

When the clock blinks dangerously of the next day to come, she gets ready for bed and rolls around in the sheets, no position comfortable for longer than ten minutes. Whenever she gets a strong whiff of Jake’s cologne, her stomach clenches and she flashes back to a blinding light striking Jake’s frighten eyes as he soundlessly yells at her, _for_ her.

 

_** ~&~ ** _

 

A nurse hands her Jake’s personal effects in a bag with a soft smile before closing the glass door on her way out. 

Amy tips the contents onto the overbed table at his feet. It’s mostly things he had in his pockets— _God, has it only been one day?_ —and his belt and sneakers. She puts his wallet and phone into her handbag dropped carelessly beside his feet. 

A pathetic puff of amusement leaves her breathless as she picks up the Bugs Bunny Pez dispenser and tilts the head back for a piece of the candy. He put in a full roll of cherry flavour before driving out to the suburbs. In case he needed to bribe the twins—to do what, Amy doesn’t know, but two three-year-olds and a twenty-nine-year-old man-child would get into a lot of mischief. 

Jake didn’t even need to whip it out all night; the girls adore him. Not that Amy was surprised. He’s been wonderful with them the few times Terry brought them to office parties. 

Shifting around random items on the table—scraps of candy and gum wrappers, old receipts and the strawberry-flavoured lip balm for which she’s been looking a month now—something catches her eye. With a rock in her throat, she picks up the gold band, smeared with blood. Jake’s blood. 

She stands there, letting the cold chill crawl from her tightening chest up her neck. Her lungs burn. A violent shiver wracks her body and she bundles her sweater tighter around herself. Forces herself to breathe in and out calmly. It works. At least, until she looks down at the ring again. 

Exhaling harshly through her dry mouth, she scurries to the sink near the door and pushes for the liquid antibacterial soap. 

From the other side of the glass doors, nurses and a doctor rush by, carrying with them muffled yells. Sharp stings at the back of her palms draw her attention back; the soap has seeped down and are smarting her cuts.

She clenches the ring in one fist and shoves her hands under the cool water. They’re shaky under the spray, and she’s careful as she unfurls her fingers to rinse off the rest of the soap. When her cuts are reduced to a dull throb, she dries her hands on a paper towel from the dispenser beside the soap.

Amy treads her way back and seats herself at the edge of the chair. She rests her forearms on the bed and frowns down at the ring. She spins it around her thumb for a long time.

Jake proposed to her with a ring pop outside Boyle Flavor, a candy store they frequented while they were dating. She can almost taste the grape on her tongue; feel the summer breeze wash down the street, dancing with the edges of her skirt and tickling her knees.

He’d gotten down on one knee and said, “Amy—holy crap, you make me happy. Marry me.” As soon as she choked out a yes, Charles made a wailing sound from inside, his face pressed up against the foggy window.

Amy clears her throat. “Charles called this morning.”

Ben once told her that people in comas can hear everything that goes on around them even when they don’t show any physical signs of doing so. Although it feels strange, she talks to him. She doesn’t want Jake to think he’s alone, and it distracts her.

“He wanted me to tell you that he’s handling everything at work for you and not to worry. Though I doubt you’d worry if you were awake right now; you’d be milking this up and getting the nurses to wait on you hand and foot.” She tries to crack a smile, but it feels an awful lot like a grimace.

She can only look at his pale face for so long before her chest tightens. Staring down at the ring again, she swallows.

“I’m so sorry, Jake,” she whispers, the words as tasteless as it is futile. She impels her gaze back to him, but this time, she can’t see the cuts on his face or how _lifeless_ he looks. He’s obscured behind the merciful curtain of her tears. 

Slipping the gold ring back to where it belongs, she lifts his fingers to her mouth and kisses the band.

 

_** ~&~ ** _

 

His mother won’t stop calling her. Her mother won’t leave her apartment. Her brothers trickle in and out throughout the day—she knows because when she comes home every night, she sees food stuffed in her fridge and empty beer bottles and plates in her living room. 

Sometimes she finds Mom, and Matthew and his fiancée at the dinner table, waiting for her. 

She doesn’t get time to be alone in her own home, not until Matthew and Leanne leave with kisses on her cheeks and Mom’s tucked away in the guest room. 

In the darkness of her bedroom is the only time Amy can feel the weight of Jake’s absence. It’s heavy on her chest, the dark thick in her eyes. For eight hours, she lies there, replaying that night; every word, every breath. 

And then her first alarm goes off and she gets up and starts her day all over again.

 

_** ~&~ ** _

 

_“It feels like I’m suffocating,” Jake moans, throwing his head back against the headrest_ _._

_Amy frowns. “Keep your eyes on the road.”_

_He looks at her with a bemused smile. “You’re the one driving, idiot.”_

_Amy jerks her head down and finds the steering wheel in front of her. She throws her hands out and assumes a nine-three position. “What—When...?”_

_“Amy, look out!”_

_She lifts her head up and squints at the blinding light that burns her eyes._ The truck. 

_Heart in her throat, Amy shouts and tries to spin the wheel, but it doesn’t budge. “Jake, I can’t —” She breaks off with a horrified scream. He’s not in his seat, but his feet are dangling over the dashboard, the rest of his body on the hood of the car._

Amy wakes up with a hoarse throat and sweat-drenched sheets. She rolls over and flickers on the bedside lamp. She only has time for eyes to adjust to the flood of brightness when her bedroom door whips open and her mother barrels in. 

The shadows cast a weary-worn look on her mother’s face as she hovers above her. “Amy, are you okay? What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” She drops down onto the edge of the bed and her hands dive urgently through Amy’s damp hair. 

“It-It’s nothing, Mom. Just a nightmare.”

Mom’s eyes are frantic as they roam Amy’s face, her mouth a thin line. “I’ll make some tea.” 

“No, it’s okay. Really.” Amy circles her hands around her wrists and gives them an encouraging squeeze. “Go back to bed.” 

Mom hesitates, but lets go of her grip on Amy’s neck. 

“Mom. I’m fine.” 

“... Okay. I love you, baby girl.” 

“Love you too.” Amy’s head falls back as her mother stands. Amy closes her eyes as warm lips press her forehead. 

She doesn’t open them until there’s a quiet click of the door. The clock clock reads 5:45AM. 

She slips out of bed and pulls on a coat and boots. To the soundtrack of her heartbeat, she sneaks out of the apartment and braves the February winter to the nearest 24/7 store for a packet of cigarettes. She trudges back to her apartment, but plants her butt on the front steps of the building and lights one up. 

She sits there and smokes as the sky turns from a heavy navy to a swirling pink and light grey. 

Inhaling the poisonous mollifier, she watches all of her stress and anxiety billow out in a thick cloud and fad out into the frigid morning air. 

The last time she lit one up, Jake had been in Boston for the weekend. He was hired tophotograph for some high-profiled event, and Amy was competing for a promotion with two other potential candidates. She was out on the balcony Sunday morning, clutching her phone for updates, when the door slid open behind her. 

Jake wasn’t supposed to be home until later that afternoon—by which time she would’ve showered, and threw and chewed away all evidence of her bad behaviour. It was such a surprise seeing him there, pointing at her accusingly with a comically dropped jaw, that she dropped her phone from three stories high. 

For the next hour as she scrambled around trying to buy a new phone and transfer her old number onto the new one, he berated her about her “disgusting habit”. During that time, she’d also gotten a text from Rosa congratulating her on receiving that promotion, but Jake refused to even _touch_ her until she’d showered from head to toe (while he unhelpfully scrutinised from his place on the bathroom sink counter) and chewed an entire pack of gum. 

Her jaw hurt by the time Jake deemed her breath satisfactory, but he drowned her in _I missed you_ and _I’m proud of you_ kisses that it was so worth it.

 

** ~&~ **

 

“You look awful,” Kylie tells her one day. “Have you been sleeping? How many hours do you get?” 

Amy takes a sip from her coffee, the liquid heavy on her tongue, and shrugs, eyes drifting over to Jake. “Enough,” she says over the steady hum of the ventilators. “I mean, I’m still coherent, aren’t I?” 

“I’m worried about you, babe.” 

She tears her eyes away from him to her best friend in the chair beside her. Kylie’s brows are knitted and her mouth is pursed the way it does when she’s distressed. Amy looks down at her paper cup and wipes away a sugar crystal from the lid. “I’m more worried about Jake.” 

“There’s nothing you can do but take care of yourself until he wakes, and you’re not doing that.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Kylie retorts in such a matter-of-fact tone that Amy stiffens.

She lifts her head and opens her mouth, ready to argue, when Kylie continues calmly.

“And that’s okay—your husband’s in a coma. He was in a traumatic accident... but so were you. Please, Amy. Take care of yourself. If not for me or your family, then for Jake.” 

Taking a deep breath, Amy swipes at her eyes. “It’s all my fault.” 

“Hey”—Kylie pulls her chair closer and wraps an arm around her shoulders—“it’s not. None of this is your fault.” 

“It is. I though—I thought it. In the car, we were arguing and he was driving me insane with his seatbelt-neglecting idiotic butt an-and I thought, _he’ll get hurt one day and regret not listening to me_.” Amy gestures jerkily. “Who thinks that?” 

“I know it must feel like it is, but it wasn’t.” Kylie covers her hand over Amy’s. “Not yours or the poor truck driver who had a heart attack. It was a freak accident. Okay?” 

_A freak accident_. It seems so simple, yet it’s so much harder to accept. But Amy nods and sniffles.

“Amy?”

“Yeah, okay. I’m just—so tired and sore.” 

“I know,” Kylie soothes. “I know.” 

“They don’t let me sleep here overnight, and I just lay awake at home; three blocks over and so afraid that he might—or he might... and I won’t be here.” 

Kylie takes away Amy’s cup. “You’re here now. Why don’t you rest your eyes for a bit? I’m not going anywhere.” She shifts lower into her seat and urges Amy to rest her head on her shoulder. “I’m here.” 

A rattle exhale escapes as she manoeuvres herself into a more comfortable position, curling into herself. She reaches out to curl her fingers around Jake’s hand. Then she closes her eyes.

 

_** ~&~ ** _

 

Rosa calls her one night.

“How’s the article coming together?” Amy asks, just for a change in topic. 

“It’s fine. I just called to tell you that you can take as much time off from work as you need. Terry’s talking about going over there and Mama-bearing the fuck outta you, but I’m keeping him at bay for now.” 

She smiles, dropping her chin to her chest. “Thanks.” It seems so insignificant of a gesture for what Rosa and the others are doing. Maybe she’ll send cards or buy donuts. 

“Yeah. We’re all thinking about you and Jake. Anyway, I gotta go.”

That night, Amy sleeps a little better.

 

_** ~&~ ** _

 

It’s a week after the accident and he’s starting to look more like her Jake. The sickening pallor of his skin is flushed out like a cold for a more lively and healthy complexion. The bandage is gone, revealing a cut the length of her pinky on the top corner of his forehead, and so are most of the wires and tubes. His jaw is clean shaven; a nurse must have shaved him. 

Doctor Hannigan took out the ventilators this morning, and to their delight, Jake’s able to breathe on his own—a great sign of his recovery. She’d already started slowly weaning him off the sedation a few days ago, as his brain is healing well. “Now it’s up to him to wake up. It’s important to be patient, Amy.” 

Amy’s not supposed to get her hopes up for Jake to wake up instantly, but that’s the thing: no matter how much she knows not to be hopeful, there’s always a sliver that whispers _it can happen; any second now_. Watching his chest rise and fall of his own accord with a smile that comes easier on her face, she listens to it— _just this once_ , she promises. 

But then she’ll sit with Jake the next day, like always. He looks like he’s sleeping, with his hair a tousled mess, and lips slightly parted under the smatter of scruff. Just like any other morning. 

And then comes that murmur of conviction: _he’ll wake any second now_. It seizes her mind and takes it hostage for the whole day, until she’s left disappointed and bereft when the nurse comes in with that _I'm sorry, but it's time to go_ smile. 

On the third day, still with no signs of Jake waking, Amy’s leg shakes as she stares imploringly at him. Her thumb kneads his palm as her other hand tugs out the creases on the sheet covering him. 

She asked a nurse if Amy could shave Jake in the mornings, since it would give her something to do. She finished that an hour ago, and if she fluffs his pillow or straightens out his blanket any more, the nurse who keeps eyeing her from her place behind the desk just outside the door might come in and kick Amy out for disturbing the patient. 

Sighing, Amy purses her lips and rests her chin on her propped up hand. “Karen called last night and said she’s still looking for the stuffed bear you carried around as a toddler.” She visited yesterday and, through her tears, spoke of all the trouble he and that bear used to get into. “She thinks getting you to smell how fowl it is will jump start your brain and wake you up.” 

Choking back a sound Jake would no doubt have made fun of if he were conscious to do so, Amy moves herself onto the edge of the bed and frames his face in her hands. “Please open your eyes,” she whispers, touching her nose to his. “I promise... I promise I won’t nag you to put on your seatbelt ever again. If you’d just do it yourself. 

“I promise I won’t be difficult on Saturday mornings when you get me up for cartoons.” She squeezes her eyes shut. “I’ll even clean the dishes for a month.” She opens her eyes in hopes that her barter has persuaded two brown eyes to blink back at her. 

She can practically hear how Jake would respond. _One month? Pft, you’re crazy. That’s hardly worth a pulse jump. What about...?_

“Three months?!” she utters in revolt. “Now who’s crazy? You’re just being difficult.” 

She catches herself smiling and looks up again, expecting to see him grinning—and then her face falls. She pulls away.

Alex comes by and keeps her company for the rest of the day. Her brothers must have made some arrangement where they’d take turns babysitting her at the hospital. It’s as if nosing their way into her apartment isn’t enough. 

_Ack, I sound ungrateful_. 

She loves them dearly for caring so much, but she wants time with Jake without one of them breathing down her neck and reassuring her that he’ll wake up when he will. Asking them to leave her alone would make her sound unappreciative. 

At 7PM, a nurse comes in to gently usher them out. Amy always drags it out; smoothing a hand down his face, whispering that she’ll be back in the morning, kissing his ring—anything to stay just that little bit longer.

Alex escorts Amy home, where she’s bombarded by her mother’s questions about the colour of Jake’s cheeks as she’s served a great helping of Mom’s specialty: Moros y Cristianos. 

Amy eats the rice and beans quickly, feeling ravenous and unsociable. She politely declines second helpings and Matthew’s offer to pop open another bottle of wine. Feigning exhaustion, she quickly makes her way back to the sanctuary of her and Jake’s bedroom. 

The sound of muffled chatter and dishes clinking waft from under the closed door. She catches snippets of their conversation: _worried about her ... she’s tough ... in the morning, we’ll ... wants is to be with him_.

 

_** ~&~ ** _

 

Amy lifts a trembling hand to Jake’s pale cheek and gently kiss his forehead in greeting, mindful of the healing cut near his hairline.

It’s two weeks after the accident and, though puffy-eyed and tired, Amy’s in a much better state than she was a fortnight ago. She asked a nurse the name of the truck driver who was at the accident with them. He’s still in the hospital; in fact, he’s been two rooms from Jake’s all along. 

Amy was barely listening at the time, but during Ben’s second visit, he told her Frank Hale, the truck driver, had complications during his coronary artery bypass surgery. 

It isn’t like Amy _blamed_ the man for driving into them, but she wasn’t exactly sympathetic to his condition. At least, not until this morning when she saw a red-headed woman with deep creases under her eyes by his bedside, looking as anguished, worried and tired as Amy felt during the last two weeks. Frank’s face, from the parts that wasn’t blocked by the big tube in his mouth, looked sunken. 

Mrs. Hale caught her eye and beckoned Amy into the room, knowing exactly who Amy is. To Amy’s astonishment, the woman apologised profusely for the accident her husband caused. 

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Amy struggled out. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault, and I’m so sorry to hear Mr. Hale hasn’t been doing well.” 

Rebecca shared what Frank went through for the past two weeks and Amy learned that the woman has been going through this all by herself, as she and Frank only have each other. Rebecca broke down halfway through reciting what the doctor told her after Frank’s second surgery, which resulted in Amy tearing up as she tried to comfort the older woman. 

It was therapeutic for them both, as they had sought out strength and hope from each other, listened to each other’s secret worries and guilt. After two hours, Rebecca announced that she needed some coffee and insisted she didn’t need company; that Amy go visit Jake. 

Amy walked into Jake’s room with her chest lighter than it’s been in days. 

Seizing the shaving kit on the bedside table, she goes through the motions of lathering the shaving foam and smoothly dragging the razor across the bottom half of his face—she’s getting pretty good at this, and it’s much easier than shaving her legs. 

“You know,” she murmurs after she’s done. “At this point, I think you’re doing this just to spite me.” She’s only half-serious, of course, and smears the tip of his nose with the foam. 

She swaps the razor for the clean surgical rag and wipes off the remaining froth from his face. “So in the name of our partnership and all that entails, it’s time to compromise. If you wake up, I won’t eat all the Pez candy.” 

Imagine Jake’s scandalous gasp. His mistrustful,  _You wouldn’t!_

She laughs to herself, dropping the rag back onto the table, then glances up at his face—and gasps. 

Jake stares right at her. 

Misty, hooded, beautiful brown eyes blink back at her. 

Her mouth opens and she tries to say his name, but there’s something wrong with it. Her mouth, not his name. 

“Jake! You-You’re awake!” 

His face screws up in pain as his Adam’s apple bobbles. She pours him the cup of water from the jug on the bedside table, almost spilling it in her haste. He accepts it and she helps him lean forward before he takes several sips.

All the while, she stares at him, her hands clasped tightly in her lap and body inclined, scarcely blinking in favour of watching his every sluggish move.

Jake hands her the cup and clears his throat. It’s the most beautiful sound she’s ever heard.

Amy smiles at him, but it falls off her face when he opens his mouth and chokes out, “Who’re you?” 

**Author's Note:**

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